Spiral
by RachelAutomne
Summary: AU — A spiral into madness, and a spiral into smoke. [SasoDei/DeiSaso]


Sasori keeps his steady pace, returning from a college orientation, reminding him of the irony of school, which was to realize he disliked every subject labeled as "career worthy." Looking up from the sidewalk, he sees a man on the curb, whose eyes are a raging sea. There's a cigarette in his right hand, and when he puts it to his lips, the smell of incense and sweet smoke slips through coats and cheap makeup, wandering until it finds him. The man glares at him, his hair sunflower petals that hide his face. Sasori steps closer to him - his scent is overwhelming. He looks to the paint tubes in his other hand; the same colors kept him company in the evening when the phone was silent.

They exchange names and small talk, and soon Deidara is smiling. (Sasori thinks he looks more like a boy when he does so.) Soon they're on a rooftop, where Deidara shows him fireworks that light up the night sky. His eyes seem to catch the glow from the stars when he speaks about art. Sasori doesn't understand a word of what he's saying, and wonders if they understood the same language. Later in the evening, he realizes why he is both a stranger and a friend - like Deidara, he appeared to be the calm shore, but kept a fire within.

The natural action is to kiss him dry, just to taste the fire from his heart, then sleep in his bed. The sheets tangle with arms and legs, hiding bright cuts and unwanted scars; lips hide them along with the sheets. Touching his bare skin burns his hands, and the blush on his cheeks is from the heat circling in his head. Their breathing is close, and he swears incense is hidden between his teeth. Too soon, his clothes are on again, the spread of flames dying away. They tell each other goodnight before Sasori leaves. He wishes to never see him again; his cold heart sounds an unheard ache.

* * *

Two days later, Sasori bumps into him, pretending their meeting is accidental; he's grateful Deidara accepts this without question. They stay on the rooftop again, where the setting sun leaves strokes of carmine and aureolin in the sky. They count each other's scars and cuts - Sasori has thirty cuts and three scars; Deidara has seventeen cuts and sixteen scars, and each indent seems to be filled with ash. Deidara's are the first he sees that aren't beautiful.

Later, they're calling each other names and laughing at their own drunken state. At one point, Deidara stumbles to the edge, and when he speaks too loudly and is unsure of his words, he falls on the hard flooring of the rooftop. Sasori laughs at his clumsy stupor, and Deidara asks what he would've done if he fell from the building. He tells him: "you wouldn't have fell because I would've caught you."

Deidara laughs until tears fall from his eyes like rain drops. "You couldn't catch me if you tried," he says, and Sasori sees the flames in his eyes and the incense burning from his skin. He falls asleep an hour later, and Sasori decides against dragging him home; he doesn't want to see his carved out skin a second time.

* * *

One month and four days after, when he has twenty eight carvings and six scars, he walks the corner of his apartment five minutes past noon, when the sun seems to stretch its rays to the bones of anyone who steps outside. There is someone singing from the rooftop, and his voice has the sound of lily petals blooming. Sasori looks to the sound, and he sees streaks of sunflower petals catching the wind. He's on the rooftop a minute later, and he only listens. Deidara asks if he likes his singing, and when he says yes, fire burns stronger than before, and sweet incense touches his lips.

This is the second time they sleep together, what he remembers later as the second and last time of three. Sasori ignores his cuts, kissing his scars instead; Deidara does the opposite, saying his cuts are the most beautiful he's ever seen. The summer heat is like winter's chills when he feels fire again, and when Deidara exhales, fireworks of his own are implemented into his skin.

The time is unknown, but the sun is still high, and the heat moves through their veins. Deidara admits he's only slept with him and one other person, but he says this in a regretful sort of way, as if he had missed something golden an eternity ago, and Sasori doesn't respond.

(He'd never admit his scars were kissed only by him.)

* * *

Two months and three days after, when Sasori has twenty four carvings and ten scars, he waits outside, wondering why he's hoping for Deidara to appear when he knew this would happen. Two hours pass when he finally comes, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with snowflakes whirling down to eyelashes like the autumn leaves. Sasori almost lends him his jacket, but decides against it - he had fire running through his veins, and that was enough. They walk down the sidewalk towards the river, nine blocks south from the apartments, and Sasori can't help but notice his goosebumps and the smell of incense growing weak; his face holds a soft weakness. Deidara says the river is rumored to be four meters deep, and when it's winter or early spring, anyone who submerges in the water is guaranteed a short death. Sasori tells him to stop reading ghost stories, and Deidara's face grows red; his eyes return to the rampant sea. He takes his leave, saying: "a death in that river would be too good for you."

Of all the places Sasori makes his neat incisions, he wishes he could carve this moment from his memory.

* * *

Two weeks and five days later, when Sasori has twenty two carvings and twelve scars, he walks into his apartment, waiting for the day he could begin college and feel accomplished to his parent's hollow wishes. When he turns on the light, he sees Deidara sitting on the floor, shaking with wet hair and damp clothes, and for the first time, he sees desperation etched onto his features. Sasori is beside him the next moment, unsure of whether to touch the bruises on his arms to comfort him, or to leave him alone to his thoughts; the neat carvings on his arm seem to have doubled since the night they were drunk together on the rooftop. He decides to simply sit beside him, sensing his strong flame whirling away every passing second.

That was the day he realized Deidara felt every emotion in the universe besides the one Sasori had for him.

* * *

Exactly one month from that day, when he has eighteen carvings and sixteen scars, he waits by the river, knowing Deidara would arrive; like a star brighter than any other given to an endless black hole, he knew Deidara had attempted to kill his lingering flame with water. Less than two hours this time, and he recognizes the once strong scent of incense delivered by the wind. Sasori notes his coat and sunken eyes, a sea once rampant that now sinks below his horizon.

"I can't see you anymore; I need to be alone to think about what I want from this," he says, gesturing to the world in front of him. Those melancholy cuts have now spread to the back of his hands.

"Okay," he says, even when there are a million other words he would've preferred to say.

The third and very last time follows suit, another memory Sasori would've liked to forget, if it hadn't been one of their last. His body is thin, and even his bones seem to be fragile. Scars and incisions are ignored, and lips are given attention instead; Deidara giving him nothing. His fire is now a flickering candlelight, and even when he is treading back to the city, Sasori is no longer left blinded by his wonderful smoke.

* * *

He pulls up his shorts three days later, when he still has eighteen incisions and sixteen scars, and those neat carvings on his legs seem like the hot sun; noticeable, bright, unwanted. He traces the raised lines, never feeling, only seeing with those half lidded eyes. Legs look like white roses with carnelian teardrops, the dried blood moving ever so neatly across. He frowns, thinking of Deidara, whose bright flames left his eyes blinded with smoke. A cold heart could not be melted, and appearing to be calm as a cloudy day, lightning strikes at his heart; a storm is erupting. Sasori lays back, closing his soft eyes for the corruption of disaster. He needs nothing more than a stone heart immune to sweet incense and raging fire. There is a sea of tears waiting for him, but he pushes on, choking on salt water all the while. He fights against the storm night after night, and after some time, he finally reaches the heart. Its beating feels lifeless, and feels cold to the touch. He pleads to become stone, the swallowed salt water running down his cheeks in desperation; he screams without sound. When his eyes open, they feel sore. In the mirror, they're stained with red, though they're not as dark as the tears on his legs.

He wishes his eyes held enough beauty to rival his cuts.

* * *

He still sees Deidara in the street corner, sitting with his coat speckled in snow, his head lowered to his knees. He sits beside him sometimes, when he has an extra fifteen minutes before class (at least, that's what he tells Deidara), resting his head on his empty shoulder. Every other day, Deidara wraps an arm around his waist, even when his hands are bare and feel like the cold sidewalk. More often than not, Deidara takes his wallet; he says nothing. He would never admit that he likes his hands better than his own money, anyway.

When he hears small talk about his death on New Years Eve, Sasori says nothing. The next day he wears shorts outside, those lines of pain and desperation like the sun. The people who would whisper about him fall silent, the blush fading into their cheeks. Still, the talk circles around; endless, unbearable. When he hears Deidara's body had been washed away in the river, he smiles even when tears run from his eyes and leave his shirt stained. The stars and the smudged look of the wooden floor when he drank keep him company.

Deidara had already been washed away, and that was the reason he had fire. Everything died away some day, but he grew tired of the chilled life around him more quickly than most boys do. Sasori throws the knife away the next morning, so when enough time is wished away, the cuts fade into scars the color of carnations just like his.

Maybe some things could last, but they give up before their fire burns out.

_-fin-_


End file.
